


The Soldier and the Prince

by makokitten



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkwardness, M/M, Mermaids Being a Serious Issue, Revisionist Fairy Tale, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fairytale turned modern and upside-down.  John Watson is an army doctor sent on a mandatory vacation by his meddling sister.  Sherlock is a bored prince who wishes to observe the human race to advance his own studies.  A chance encounter throws them together in the most unexpected of ways, and they soon find themselves avoiding a sinister scientist and Sherlock's power-hungry brother.  Oh, yeah, and then there's the whole mermaid thing.  That's a bit of a serious issue. Eventual Sherlock/John.</p><p>[[As of 10/16/13, this story is no longer being updated.]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ennui

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my lovely beta, h3rring, who put up with my fascination with mermaids and my utter inability to understand how German works.

* * *

            “Ennui.”

            Dr. John H. Watson, recently returned from Afghanistan, has been fingering the stem of his wine glass absentmindedly.  Most of his sister’s conversation has faded into the background noise of the restaurant, which is low and indistinct like the buzzing of many angry insects.  When he hears that word, though, he looks back up.  “Sorry?”

            “Ennui,” repeats Harry Watson from across the table.  “You remember what that means, don’t you?”

            “Of course I know what it _means_.”

            “All right, sorry, sorry.”  Harry leans back in her chair, her tone indicating that John is the unreasonable one for being at all offended.  “Look, I don’t know how hard you got hit on the head over there.”  She takes a sip from her own glass, and John winces.

            “So what?”  John’s barely touched his food.  His chicken parmesan sits on the plate in front of him, almost mocking him somehow by being nearly complete.  He shuffled his greens around enough for it to appear that he made a reasonable attempt at eating them.  Dinner is Harry’s treat, so he should eat up, but he isn’t hungry.  Hasn’t been for months.  “You think I’m just _bored_?  That’s my problem?”

            “Well, I don’t think your therapist would say that, because you’d have to stop footing the bill for sessions, but—yes, I think that’s _part_ of it.”

            John’s left hand trembles.  He hides it in his lap, under his napkin.

            “And that’s why I think you should go on holiday,” Harry continues.  “John, you’ve been home for a month now.  You haven’t gotten a job, you’re living in rooms you won’t be able to keep affording, and you won’t accept money from me.  Nothing seems to be helping.”  A shrug, and then she downs the rest of her wine.  “Maybe a change in scenery would be good for you.”

            “No, _Harry_ —”  Too loud.  People from the table next to them look over, or maybe that’s just John’s imagination.  John clears his throat, licks his lips nervously, and leans forward.  “I want to stay in London.”

            Harry laughs, cruel and clear.  “John, forgive me, but you don’t know what the hell you want.”

            “And you do?”

            She smiles.  “I think I want another glass of this _amazing_ wine.”

            When she flags down the waiter, John can’t even muster the energy to discourage her.

* * *

            Two days later, John gets a call on his mobile.  That’s unusual; it’s a new phone, gifted to him by Harry despite repeated protests, so there’s a very short list of people who know the number.  Only when the caller ID reveals that whoever is trying to reach him isn’t his sister does John answer the phone.  Could be a job offer.  In his dreams.  “John Watson.”

            “John!” cries the person on the other end of the line.  “Been a while, how are you?”

            John has to hold the phone away from his ear for a second.  “Sorry, who is this?”

            “Stamford.  Mike Stamford.  Remember, we were at Barts together?”

            “Oh, Mike, right, hi.  Sorry, didn’t recognize your number.  Really _has_ been a while.”

            “Don’t worry about it.”  John can practically hear Mike waving him off.  “You’ll never guess who rang me the other day.”  John opens his mouth to guess, but Mike doesn’t afford him enough time.  “Your sister!  We ended up chatting a bit, and she mentioned you might have an interest in getting out of town.”

            John’s stomach drops.  “Oh, no, I—”

            “So I told her about this amazing place I visited last year over the summer.  Tiny little island off of Naples.  Called, eh… Anthemusa, that’s right.  And at first you take the boat out and you think ‘oh this is all just rocks and cliffs,’ but there’s actually a very pretty stretch of beach out on the west side.  Of course, it’s a little cold for swimming this time of year, but still gorgeous, and the mainland’s just a boat ride away.”

            “But—”

            “Anyway, Harry mentioned you were a bit down on your luck, so she and I decided we’d treat you, since you’re a war hero now and all.”  Mike pauses.  “No respect for veterans nowadays, is there?  So, a fortnight on a gorgeous island off of the coast of Naples.  What do you say?”

            John swallows, his throat dry, his left hand acting up again.  “Mike, I appreciate the offer, but I really, _really_ couldn’t.”

            “Too late for that.  Already booked you tickets out of town.”

            “Oh.”

            “You’re going to love it,” Mike says.  His voice echoes hollowly in John’s ear.  “Trust me.”

* * *

            _Ennui_.  Noun. Listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from boredom.

            Sherlock mouths the word to himself.  _Ennui_.  Nice word, fluid consonants, smooth vowel sounds.  Not as difficult as some of the other human sounds.  The hard “z” of German was tricky to master.  His throat just isn’t configured correctly for it.  He’d gotten it eventually, though, after enough practicing.  Mycroft had thought it a very disrespectful noise—all the more reason to make it at every opportunity.

            “Ennui.”  Says it out loud.  A familiar word.  Has a similar, though not equivalent, meaning in French.  Sherlock had taught himself French in the late 1700s, just when all of the various revolutions were beginning to brew.  Loved those.  So many shipwrecks, especially when sailors travelled between Europe and the New World.  During that era, Mycroft let him keep a couple of French sailors for a bit in a little cove so he could listen to them talk.  He would feed them fish, which they didn’t eat raw and instead cooked over fire.  Sherlock still has the burn on his finger from when he sang them into letting him touch the flame.  The most exquisite sort of pain.

            They were large, meaty men with, as Sherlock learned later, absolutely filthy vocabulary.  Eventually, and much to Sherlock’s chagrin, Mycroft had them butchered and served at a royal feast.

            (In Mycroft’s defense, they were delicious, but even that couldn’t quell Sherlock’s anger at the wasted potential.)

            For Mycroft, all of Sherlock’s endeavors with humans serve one purpose: the gathering of intelligence.  To Mycroft, everything is a war.  The humans will someday rediscover their existence and put them in tanks like their brethren, the sharks, or hunt them down like their other kin, the whales.  Sherlock’s studies of human language and human habits will only prepare them to have the upper hand in the inevitable conflict, since humans know next to nothing of the habits of merfolk.

            Sherlock simply wishes to observe, and to understand.  War does not concern him.

            “Ennui.”  Such an easy word for such a disastrous state of mind.  Sherlock drifts down to the ocean floor, considering it.  He has been looking for a word in his newest language to describe his recent feelings, and that one most certainly fits.  Too bad it _isn’t_ full of harsher consonants—that would be much truer to character.  Sherlock likes German because of how much expression is packed into every word.

            After checking the protective charms which keep the pages from being damaged, Sherlock closes his dictionary and sets it aside.  This dictionary is entitled the _Oxford English Dictionary_ , which is appropriate.  “Oxford English,” the name of the language.  “Dictionary,” noun, a reference source in print or electronic form containing words, usually alphabetically arranged, along with information about their forms, pronunciations, functions, etymologies, meanings, and syntactical and idiomatic uses.

            Sherlock reclines against the rock, languishing.  What he needs to truly master the language is a native speaker, but shipwrecks aren’t as common as they used to be and Mycroft has outlawed the ancient practice of singing to sailors on the grounds of it being too “noticeable.”  All of the locals speak Italian, which is utterly useless to him—he’d internalized that particular human language around the time the printing press was invented.

            All this work, learning languages, collecting discarded human artifacts, day in, day out, but what for?  Mycroft’s imaginary conflict?  Personal satisfaction?  No, no, he wants to _apply_ his knowledge, but how?  And to what end?

            Perhaps he should visit the surface again.  Of course, after the Second World War, Mycroft placed a strict ban on coming within thirty meters of the ocean’s surface, but that’s never stopped Sherlock before…

            His tailfins waving idly in the ocean’s undercurrent, Sherlock’s eyes drift shut while he imagines himself observing the hairy humans sunning themselves on the beach.  When he opens them again, he realizes that he’s no longer alone.  An eel darts behind a bed of seaweed.  One of Mycroft’s spies, no doubt.  No, couldn’t possibly risk a trip to the surface today.  Maybe wait a day.  Two, for safety.

            Sherlock Holmes, Prince of the Seven Seas, makes a mental note to avoid his brother at all costs.  He’ll get back up to the surface even if it kills him.


	2. Room 221

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The island of "Anthemusa" as described here doesn't exist. It's the actually the name given to the island of the Sirens in some versions of the Greek myth. That island is thought to be either Ischia or Capri, but it's a completely separate island here for the sake of fiction. Enjoy!

* * *

            John is booked to fly out of London on Monday.  At least Harry thought enough ahead to allow him one last session with his therapist and ample time to pack.  Not that he owns an obscene amount of clothing these days.  What he does own is not terribly vacation-appropriate, either too heavy or too light.  He throws a quarter of his standard wardrobe (plus a few essentials: loose shirts, old sweatpants) into a worn suitcase and then sits on his bed, just breathing.  There’s something to be said for being alive.

            Or is there?  John doesn’t feel particularly alive.  When he decides to take a walk around town, just to stretch his legs, it’s as though there’s a layer of cling film separating him from all of the other life passing him by.  People with jobs, people headed to the shops, people in love, people laughing, people checking their watches.  Even in the middle of a chilly and drizzly day, London is full of life.  Men, women, pets, taxi cabs, all splashing about their business.  And there’s John, right in the middle of it all, somehow moving too while managing to stay very still.

            “What drew you back to London, John?” asks Ella, his therapist.

            John’s eyes are instinctively drawn to the window when he doesn’t want to answer a question.  He’s been watching the rain fall.  It’s a cold rain today, not the warm rain of summer: an uncomfortable rain which seeps under your skin and stays for dinner.  The rain you can’t quite wash out even under a hot shower.  “I don’t know,” he replies, looking back at her.  “Dismal place, isn’t it?  Especially today.”  He sits back in the chair, shifting awkwardly.  “But it’s home.  I have so many memories here, so this was where I wanted to be—I just thought coming home would be different.”

            “Different in what way?”

            “Just different.”  John laces his fingers together.  “A lot of my friends from uni are off having jobs, being married, taking care of their kids, and I’m not there.  I’m somewhere… else.”

            Ella nods understandingly.  Sometimes, John thinks he’s just paying her to look understanding at him while he talks.  In a way, it’s reassuring.  No one else does that nowadays.  “City life can put a lot of pressure on anyone, John.”

            “I know that.”

            “Unwanted pressure.”  She closes her book of notes.  In the time they’ve been together, she’s gotten better at angling it so that he can’t read what she writes about him.  “This vacation might be a nice change of pace.  A bit of sun and fresh air might really help you.”  She smiles.  “Relax, John.  Try not to press yourself so hard.  Take a bit of time for yourself for once.  You might be surprised.”

* * *

            He leaves.  The flight to Naples is relatively brief.  Three hours in the air and he’s on the ground in Italy before the morning’s spent.  He can’t keep himself from yawning when he gets his passport stamped, and decides to forgo sightseeing in Naples in favor of catching the ferry to Anthemusa.  There’s always the option of coming back another day.

            The ferry ride takes about an hour and a half.  John kicks back in his seat and opens one of the thrillers he purchased in the airport to read on the plane, a spy novel.  They’re all the same after a while, spy novels, with their action and occasional romance, and none of them ever seem to capture how horrifying it is to kill someone or just watch someone die in front of you.  John’s restless, can’t get into his book.  Eventually, he closes it and settles for watching the waves, blue and infinite.

            Anthemusa is a little smaller than Capri, its neighbor to the southeast.  John’s first impression is dominated by cliffs and rocks, but those give way eventually to a port town on a healthy stretch of beach.  Cute.  Quiet.  John imagines that a place like this must get quite crowded during the tourist season, but not so much at the end of January.  Some of the rockier terrain interests him, actually, and he’d consider hiking if it weren’t for the limp which haa plagued him since Afghanistan.

            John is relieved when the ferry docks.  His head was beginning to spin, and walking is difficult enough without having to worry about which way is up.  He asks one of the dock workers for directions to his hotel and, after several linguistic misunderstandings, is pleasantly surprised to learn that it isn’t far away at all.

            The woman at his hotel’s front desk is plump and cheery.  John thinks she looks at him like she’s sorry for him, as if it’s a tragedy to be on a beautiful island on vacation all alone.  She’d be right, though, feeling sorry.  It is a bit of a tragedy.  “English?” she asks, her question obscured by a thick accent.

            “Uh, yeah,” John replies.  “English.”

            Her smile broadens.  “Other English people here, too.  Nice, young couple.  You know them?”

            “Oh, no,” John says.  “But thank you—for telling me.”  Having other English speakers around might not be so bad.  John doesn’t speak a word of Italian.

            She nods and passes him his key.  “Room 221.”

            “Thank you.  Thank you very much.”

            Room 221 is actually a suite.  More room than he needs, honestly.  There’s a nice flat-screen television in front of a pull-out couch in the living area, a small kitchenette, and, separated by a door, the bedroom and the lavatory.  The bedroom isn’t small, either.  King bed, large window to let in the sun.  Too much for him.  Much, much more than he needs.

            He thinks the room might look a little smaller once he unpacks, so he does that first.  Instead, the room utterly dwarfs his wardrobe.  It does not look smaller.  Still unsatisfied, still fidgety, he decides to do a little exploring.  Book in one hand, cane in the other, towel tucked under his arm, John Watson heads down to the beach.

            It’s a cool day, clear, crisp, but not unpleasant.  John’s perfectly comfortable in a light jacket.  He spreads his towel out on the sand and looks out at the ocean, feeling very small.

            Then he lies down, intending to read his book, and falls asleep.

* * *

            Sherlock Holmes waits two days.  He behaves himself.  Doesn’t act out.  No one should have any reason to pay attention him, and they don’t.  Others of his kind would rather not interact with him unless they absolutely need to, after all.  Not bemoaning that fact, it’s simply the way it is.  Sherlock doesn’t see the value in social interaction anyway—too many customs and pleasantries for very little return.

            Two days, and then, at midday, he sets out to the island which used to belong to his people, swimming as fast as he possibly can.  It’s the middle of winter, unfortunately.  The odds of finding humans to observe on the beach will be relatively low.  Even so, he cannot know for sure whether or not he will find any humans unless he looks for himself.  Pointless to speculate without concrete information.

            Sherlock peers out at the beach from a cluster of rocks.  The air above the ocean chills his skin, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  He shakes his head.  This takes a bit of getting used to, naturally.  It’s been a while since he’s had to use his nose to breathe.  Underwater, he relies on the gills on his neck, but there’s no need for that above the surface.

            Scanning the beach, Sherlock finds it disappointingly empty.  After observing for an hour, still and silent, he almost decides to give up and swim back to his cove.  This isn’t worth the risk.  If one of Mycroft’s little spies catches a glimpse of him on a day that he doesn’t even get any _research_ done…

            Then, the tides turn in his favor.  A human male approaches the ocean, but stops and sits down on a piece of fabric on the beach.

            Sherlock ducks back behind the rocks, but the human doesn’t appear to have seen him.  The human doesn’t seem to focus on anything, actually.  Curious.  After a few minutes, the human stops looking at whatever had captured his attention on the horizon and lies out on the fabric.  Sherlock watches, enraptured—what will happen next?—but the only thing which changes is the human’s breathing, which evens out into a slow pattern indicative of sleep.

            On the one hand, that is no fun, not interesting at all.  On the other, this lends Sherlock the opportunity for closer observation.  Glancing around to make sure that he is, in fact, alone with the human male, Sherlock swims toward the shore as stealthily as he can.  The sand is a struggle for him—he has to wriggle forward on his belly, using his upper body to gain momentum while his tail drags uselessly behind him—but eventually he reaches the slumbering human.

            The first thing he does is inhale.  Smell reveals so much about the composition of any human.  Of course, there are the usual soaps—overpowering, though, and artificial—and the hearty smell of meat on the bone.  Human meat has become less appealing now that they feed themselves up with processed foods.  Even so, the flesh is… desirable.  Concealed beneath the obvious, though, lay the more interesting scents: a sickly trace of old infection, the sterile smell of human medicine, and, below all of that, the presence of more metal than is usual for this species.

            Leaning back, Sherlock studies his specimen.  The male is thin, about average height.  Not too much meat on his bones, but enough for a meal for Sherlock, that’s certain.  Sherlock is salivating excessively before he realizes it.  No, no, this is his first chance to study a human up close in almost a century.  He can’t _eat_ this opportunity away.

            Yet.

            Why the metallic scent, though?  Sherlock considers his options and recalls the primary weapons used by the humans: those metal guns with their round metal bullets.  Never could get them to work underwater.  So, this human had been shot.  Perhaps he is a fighter of some sort, a soldier.  Traces of the bullet still linger in his body.  But where?  Instinct told him that the scent was concentrated near the human’s left shoulder, but he _had_ walked as though his right leg was injured, using some sort of stick-like prop—cane—to compensate.

            Legs, human legs, fascinate Sherlock.  He can never resist the chance to examine one up close.  If this human was wounded in his leg, then there would be scar tissue, wouldn’t there?  Perhaps he would be able to feel it through the clothing.  Gently, he reaches out, settling his sandy hand on the human’s right thigh and then glancing up to check for a reaction.  None.  Safe to proceed.  Nothing unusual under Sherlock’s palm… He shifts it a bit, incredibly conscious of the warm, concentrated human blood under his hand.

            “I don’t feel anything,” he murmurs to himself in Mermish.  “Is it possible that…

            The human stirs.

            In an instant, Sherlock propels himself back into the water.  He _can’t_ let himself be seen—can’t let his _tail_ be seen.  Luckily, the sun should be bright in the human’s eyes, so even if he saw Sherlock—had he seen Sherlock?  Oh, _damn it all_.

            Sherlock watches from behind the safety of the rocks as the human sits up, glancing around, blinking rapidly in the sunlight.  Hadn’t seen Sherlock, then.  Good.  Sherlock is about to retreat when the human calls, “Is someone there?”

            _English_.  The man is speaking Oxford English, the language in his dictionary!  Native speaker, judging by his accent and the way he’d instinctively used that tongue.  Definitely not an Italian.  Good.  Very good.  Enough motivation to risk a bit more exposure.  Sherlock peeks out from behind his cover and calls, “Hello.”

            The human stands up, squinting out at Sherlock.  “Hi—oh, you must be one of the people she mentioned before.”  How cryptic.  Sherlock has no idea what that means.  Can infer enough to go along.  “What are you doing all of the way out there?”

            What sort of question is that?  Isn’t the answer obvious?  Sherlock bites down on the instinct to chew out the human, though.  The human can’t help that he’s a less evolved life form.

Sherlock just says, “Swimming.”

            “Sorry?”

            “ _Swimming_.”  A little louder.

            “No, I can see that.”  The human holds a hand over his eyes.  Shielding them from the sun.  Clever!  Must be instinctive.  Sherlock doesn’t have that instinct.  The sun never gets that bright underwater.  “Well, I’m John Watson, I’m staying up at the, ah,” a vague wave of his other hand, “the hotel.  Like you, I suppose.”

            Sherlock nods along.  He knows what a hotel _is_ (a building consisting solely of units for temporary accommodation, intriguing!), but not the particular one to which this human is referring.  John Watson, that’s his name.  _John_.  Nice, round vowels.  Sort of suits the human’s face—round, pleasant.  “Sherlock Holmes,” says Sherlock.

            “Good to meet you, Sherlock.  Er, why don’t you come a bit closer?” John asks.

            “I’m fine where I am.”

            “But it’s the middle of winter.  It must be freezing in there.  You’ll get hypothermia.”

            Hypothermia.  Noun.  The condition of having an abnormally low body temperature, typically one that is dangerously low.  Sherlock smiles.  “I don’t think so.  I’ve often been told that I’m… somewhat cold-blooded.”

            “Suit yourself,” says John, who goes back to sit down on his towel.  He’d just stood up for an abnormally long period of time without complaint _despite_ his injured leg, Sherlock notes.  Perhaps it isn’t injured at all.  Perhaps it’s imagined—what’s the word?— _psychosomatic_ , yes.  Here he is, going deeper and deeper.  What an excellent case study this “John Watson” is.

            “What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, eager to continue the conversation.  How often does an opportunity like this come along?

            John looks back out at him.  “Well, I was going to just enjoy the sun while it lasts,” he says.  “Maybe read.”

            “Oh.  I enjoy reading.”

            “Many people do.”

            “Indeed.”  What else can he say?  “My favorite book is the _Oxford English Dictionary_.”

            John laughs, which makes Sherlock’s cheeks sting.  Why?  Out of shame?  Why should he care that a human is laughing at him?  “Come _on_.”

            “What?” asks Sherlock, genuinely offended.

            “No one’s favorite book is the _dictionary_.”

            “Well,” Sherlock huffs.  “Mine is.”

            John gives Sherlock a long, appraising look, and then smiles at him.  “Okay.  That’s fine.  Whatever works.”

            “Good.”  Clinging to the rock face is fast becoming tiresome.  Sherlock says, “One moment,” and then swims around to the back of the rock to climb on top of it, making sure his tail is hidden from John’s view.  He sets himself on of the rock and from his perch watches John, who has begun to read.

            Occasionally, John glances in Sherlock’s direction.  Eventually, he asks, “What are you doing _now_?”

            It’s Sherlock’s turn to shrug.  “Just sitting here.  Watching you.”

            “Are you in the habit of people watching?”

            “Why shouldn’t I be?”

            “Right,” John says softly.  But he doesn’t leave, and Sherlock is thrilled.  This is the first human he hasn’t sung into submission that _hasn’t_ been utterly terrified of him.  Here they are, speaking in Oxford English, just like real humans do.  Even when John just sits there in silence, Sherlock’s constantly absorbing new details—the slant of his shoulders, the angle of his feet, the lengths of his fingers.  He can’t remember ever feeling this excited over something.  John Watson is… unusual, that is certain.  This is an extremely special case.

            After about an hour, John closes his book and calls to Sherlock.  “I’m going back in now.  You should, too.  It’s getting dark.”

            Of course.  Winter.  Shorter days.  “I’ll be along,” Sherlock says, moderating his vocal tone, keeping it casual.  “Will you be back tomorrow?”

            “What?”

            “Tomorrow,” Sherlock repeats.  “You’ll be here.”

            “Oh.”  It’s not really a question, but John thinks it over anyway.  He nods.  Interesting how body language carries over between species.  Merfolk use nods to communicate as well.  “Yes, sure.  I’ll be here tomorrow.”

            “All right.”  Sherlock sets his head down on the rock, skin and scales alike prickling with excitement.  “Good afternoon, John Watson.”

            “Afternoon.”

            As John limps back up the beach, Sherlock smiles after him with an almost sinister glee and makes a mental note to feed before coming to see his human tomorrow.  Wouldn’t want to eat John on accident, after all.


	3. Artifacts Bust

* * *

            Nightmares aren’t any easier to bear off the coast of Italy than they are in a rented room in London.  In fact, in some ways, they’re harder.  When John Watson wakes up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, he has no idea where he is.  It takes him an extra minute to calm his jumping heart.

            Unable to coax himself back to bed and afraid that he’d wind up in some twisted hallucination of an Afghan desert again, John pushes himself out of bed, reaches for his cane, and limps over to the kitchenette to brew some tea.  Good thing he’d done a bit of shopping earlier, isn’t it?  Sane enough for that.  God, he’s losing his mind.  One of his greatest fears is that he’ll sink into that nightmare and never emerge again.  Another is that the nightmare is what’s real, that he’s still in an army hospital in Afghanistan fighting off an infection, and the rest, all of this, is…

            But he couldn’t make all of this up, could he?  The hotel room, the beach, Anthemusa?  That strange man he’d met earlier in the day whose favorite book is the dictionary?  Certainly not, it’s too much for him.  John limps back into his bedroom and draws open the curtains covering his view of the sea.  Seeing water again would be reassuring, to say the least.

            When he gets his view, though, it’s marred by something unexpected.   _Light_.  John squints out at the water, at first thinking that he’s seeing a bright star on the horizon, but then realizing that he’s looking at a searchlight on a boat.  But who would be out at half past two in the morning?  Some kind of whaling vessel?  No, couldn’t be.  John sips his tea contemplatively.  Too small to be a whaling vessel.  Are there even any whales around here?  Sea’s too shallow, isn’t it?  Then again, stranger things have happened.  No… probably just a patrol boat, looking for something.  None of his business.

            John turns the armchair to face the window and sits there for half an hour, just drinking his tea and watching the boat pass back and forth, again and again.  The effect is hypnotic, or maybe John’s worn out from the flight.  Maybe John’s just been tired for months.  He closes his eyes briefly.  When he opens them again it’s already morning.

* * *

            After a shower and another cup of tea, John Watson feels much more refreshed.  Grabbing a light jacket and hefting his laptop up under his arm, he heads out of his room and downstairs to the lobby, where the woman behind the front desk is chatting with a young couple.

            “Hello!” she calls, waving at John.  “This the, eh, other couple I tell you about yesterday.  Other English people.”

            The couple turns to look.  Neither of them is Sherlock, although John could tell as much even from behind.  The man is dark-haired, on the small side; the woman, a bit mousy.  Both are dressed in a garishly touristy fashion, but both also smile at him.  Nice enough.  John suppresses his confusion to politely smile back, holding out his hand to be shaken.  “John Watson, hi.”

            “Oh, hi,” the woman says.  She pushes her hair behind her ear before shaking his hand.  “I’m Molly Hooper, and this is my boyfriend, Jim.”  Her smile broadens self-consciously.  “You can just call us Molly and Jim if you like.”

            “Nice to meet you,” Jim adds, shaking John’s hand when it’s his turn.

            “Likewise,” says John, unsure of where to go with the conversation now.  “Didn’t think I’d find anyone else here during the off-season.”

            “Well,” Molly says, touching her boyfriend’s arm.  “Jim here’s a marine biologist.”  She looks proud as she says it.  “He wants to have a look at the wildlife here while the people aren’t around scaring them away.”

            “We’re going scuba diving later.  Going to take some nice photographs.”  Jim looks John over in a ferrety way that makes John feel mildly uncomfortable for a reason he doesn’t understand.  “You’re free to join us.”

            “Oh, yes!” Molly exclaims, nodding.  “Absolutely.”

            “That’s all right, but I think I’ll pass,” John says.  “I have to—I’m running a bit late, actually.”  He nods at them.  “Very nice to meet you both.  By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have seen any other English-speakers around, have you?”

            They shake their heads.

            “Well, thank you anyway. See you around.”

            John leaves as quickly as his bad leg will allow.  He’s not late for anything, of course.  It’s just that talking to people is so  _difficult_.  He’d rather be alone.  Never one for scuba diving, anyway.  But it kills him a bit, too, because he was never like this.  Before the war, he was… fine at talking, laughing, just enjoying the company of others.  Now, it doesn’t come easily to him anymore.  He feels bad about brushing off the nice couple, but even the two-minute conversation he’d just endured was exhausting.  Not anything against them, it’s just him.  It’s always just him.

            He lunches at a café called  _Angelo’s_.  Most of the tables are unoccupied.  It really is the off-season.  After he pays, he makes his way back down to the beach and sits down on the sand, opening his laptop.  Before he left London, Ella suggested that he keep a travel diary on his trip, so he opens a blank document and stares at it.  The cursor blinks at him, mocking, but he can’t think of anything to write.  Nothing much has happened so far.  What should he write?  “Arrived at island, slept, met someone who lied to me, ate, slept, cuppa tea, etc. etc. etc.”?  He sighs.

            “What’s that?”

            John nearly jumps.  It takes him a moment to locate the source of the words—but there he is, the man sitting out on the rock.  Sherlock’s damp shoulders gleam in the midday sun.  “Oh,” says John.  “You again.”

            “That thing,” Sherlock repeats sternly.  “In your lap.  What is it?”

            “What, this?”  John lifts up his laptop, as if giving Sherlock a better view of it will answer his question.  “It’s a laptop.”  No response.  John clears his throat.  “A… computer?”

            “Oh!”  Sherlock sits up, leaning forward on his elbows.  “Really?  That’s wonderful.  May I have a look?”

            “Um, sure.”  John isn’t sure why he so easily accepted Sherlock’s story the previous day.  He’s clearly not English; instead of any familiar accent, he has a strange, musical way of pronouncing everything, as if his sentences are actually verses in a song.  “Come over here.”

            Strangely enough, Sherlock retreats a bit.  “No.”

            “What?”  John squints out at him, blinking against the sun.  “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

            “I mean ‘ _no_ ,’ John Watson.  I’m not leaving this rock.”

            “Suit yourself, then,” John replies, growing a little impatient with all of this.  He’d hoped to lure Sherlock a little closer so he could ask what the bloody hell is going on.  “You won’t get to see my laptop.”

            Sherlock considers this for a moment, glancing about for an alternative, and then finds something which excites him.  “Why don’t you walk out on that old pier over there?” he asks, pointing.  “You can show me at the end.”

            “Why?”

            “I don’t want to leave the water,” Sherlock says.  “I like it out here.”  John can’t see very well, but he thinks Sherlock is smiling.  “Promise I won’t drown you.”

            “That’s reassuring.”  John wouldn’t even consider obeying except for how he wants to get a closer look at Sherlock.  He’d feel better about this whole strange situation if he knew exactly to whom he’s speaking.  Eventually, he says, “Fine, I’ll go, just give me a minute.”

            The pier in question stands alone a little ways up the beach.  It takes John a few minutes to walk over.  The sand would be tough enough to navigate without having to rely on his cane or make sure he doesn’t drop his computer.  When he finally sits down on the pier’s edge, Sherlock is there waiting for him, treading water like an expert, his head and shoulders visible.

John has to do a double take.  Sherlock’s face is utterly unearthly, characterized mainly by piercing grey eyes set above ridiculously pronounced cheekbones.  His hair is longer than John would have thought; dark and curly, it clings protectively to his neck and his shoulders, although not enough to hide his defined collarbones.  He’s far too pale for someone who spends all of his time out in the ocean swimming, that’s for sure, and his skin is oddly reflective.  Up close, Sherlock is certainly one of the most aesthetically interesting people John has ever seen.

            “Show it to me,” Sherlock commands.

            “All right, all right, just a second.”  John reopens his laptop and turns it back on, showing Sherlock his blank journal entry.  “Here.  Have you really never seen a computer before?”

            “ _Fantastic_.”  Sherlock stares at the laptop, utterly ignoring the question, eyes daring back and forth rapidly between John and the screen.  Enraptured, he reaches out to touch it, which is when John pulls it back and sets it far out of reach.

            “No, for God’s sake, don’t do that!”

            Genuine confusion flits across Sherlock’s face, coupled with inexplicable indignation.  “Why?”

            “You’re  _wet_.  You’ll ruin it.”

            “Why would I ruin it?” Sherlock asks.  He takes a moment to think, and then: “Does it run on gunpowder?”

            “No,  _Christ_ , you’re about two centuries too late.”  John rubs his forehead.  “Who  _are_  you?”

            Sherlock remains unperturbed.  He keeps glancing over John’s shoulder at the computer, trying to take it apart with his eyes.  “I already told you.”

            “Yes,” John says, “but you  _lied_.  You’re not staying at the hotel.”

            That gets Sherlock’s attention, at least.  He looks back at John and shrugs, as if that’s an acceptable substitute for an apology.  “No, I’m not.”

            “Why did you say you were?”

            Another shrug.  “Easier that way.  Does it really matter?”

            “Of course it  _matters_.  For all I know, you could be an… escaped convict or something.”  John studies Sherlock, who’s still staying afloat quite admirably.  “You’re not an escaped convict, are you?”

            Sherlock shakes his head.  “The less you know, the better.”

            “ _Why_?”

            “If I tell you, that will contaminate the results.”

            “Results.”  John repeats the word out of disbelief.  He’s not hiding his skepticism from Sherlock.  “So this is an experiment now?”

            “It has been.”

            John laughs.  It feels a bit like a defense mechanism.  “Has anyone ever told you that you are  _incredibly_  strange?”

            “Often.  What about you?”

            “Me?”

            “Yes.”  Sherlock cocks his head to the side, waiting for John’s reaction.  “I’ve been to beaches before.  I’ve watched hum—people come and go.  They usually travel in small packs, with family members, or friends, or mates.  And here you are at the beach in the middle of winter all by yourself.  Why?  Maybe no one else could accompany you, but in that case, why not postpone your holiday?  Conclusion: you  _want_  to be alone.  Human beings are generally sociable, particularly when in the presence of a beach, so you’re a rarity.”

            “You’re one to talk,” John retorts, Sherlock’s words stinging his skin.  He rubs his arms.  Funny how words tend to sting when there’s truth to them.  “Swimming all alone in the water, doing experiments on hapless tourists.”

            “Wrong,” Sherlock says.  “I am not alone.  I  _was_  alone—but now you’re here, and you haven’t told me to go away yet.”  He smiles, suddenly seeming rather sheepish.  “You see, now we’re alone together.”

            “That doesn’t make any sense.”  Even so, that’s all John can think to say.  Sherlock words have had a sort of numbing effect on him.  He still tingles from being dissected, but not in a good way.  The last thing he wants is for someone to look at him and know that he’s lonely—or maybe he does want that after all.  “I have to go,” he says, but it’s a struggle to get the words out.  “I’m going back into the hotel.”  A pause.  “Will you be here tomorrow?”

            Sherlock nods.  “I will if you will.”

            “Right,” says John.  “Good.”  He nods and then, with some painful effort, collects his computer and pushes himself back up to his feet again.  He doesn’t know what inspires him to turn around and add, “Take care of yourself,” but he does before continuing on his way.

            “You too, John Watson,” says Sherlock softly.

            When John glances back again, Sherlock is gone.

* * *

            Sherlock speeds back to his cove in good spirits, elated that he managed to appeal to a human’s emotional side without the aid of an enchanting song.  That’s good, great, a valuable skill.  Humans are highly emotional creatures, after all.  Learning what makes them tick will be tantamount to the success of this experiment.

            He thinks of his human as he swims.  He’s becoming fond of John in a way that he’d imagine most humans are fond of the small animals they keep as companions.  The human is endearing in his confusion, that’s certain.  It’s rather adorable that he’s so fascinated and Sherlock barely has to  _do_  anything.  And that device of his—Sherlock wants to have a closer look at it, to dismantle it and see how it works.  Human technology has definitely advanced over the last century… amazing how they compensate for their lack of magical abilities.  Such a resilient species.

            The water feels almost as light as air on his bare back.  Sherlock doesn’t think anything can spoil his mood.

            He is grievously wrong.

            When he arrives at his cove, he finds it full of merfolk who are most definitely not him, poking around human artifacts they definitely should not be touching.  They’re loading his property into containers for easier transport.  Ransacking his cove.  There are policefolk here  _ransacking his cove_.  Oh, he knows who’s behind this.  He also knows who’s in charge here.  Would recognize the back of that head anywhere.

            Outraged, he swims up to senior police official Gregory Lestrade and demands, “What in Neptune’s name is going on?”

            “Oh, about time you got back.”  Lestrade turns towards him, gesturing at the cove.  “Had to start without you.  Search and seizure, I’m afraid.  Illegal artifacts bust.”

            “Illegal artifacts bust?”  Sherlock can’t believe what he’s hearing.  “That—that—that’s not—that doesn’t  _exist_.”

            “It does now.”  Sherlock must look stricken—and of course he’s stricken, this is his life’s work being tossed away in front of his eyes—because Lestrade’s tone changes, his eyes softening.  “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I have my orders.”

            The worst part is the way Lestrade seems genuinely sympathetic.  But if he actually cared he would do something to stop this.  Sherlock opens his mouth to tell Lestrade where he can put his damn orders when someone calls over, “What’s this?”

            Sherlock turns, stares.  “That’s a sixteenth-century human manuscript and don’t you  _dare_  take it—just put it  _back_ , put everything back.”  They stare at him in turn and don’t do anything.  “ _That_ ’s an order.  Why aren’t you dolphins listening to me?”

            “Instructions from the prince don’t outweigh orders from the king, you know that,” Lestrade says.  “Your brother is worried about you.”

            “Well, this is a very brotherly way to express his  _concern_.”  Sherlock crosses his arms.  “My collection isn’t hurting anyone.  He’s known about it for centuries.”

            “The same thing can’t be said for your trips to the surface.”  Lestrade shakes his head.  “You’re endangering the entire species.  What if you’re  _seen_?”

            Scowling, Sherlock hisses, “I won’t be seen.  I know what I’m doing, and I’ve got more experience with these humans than any of your little—”

            “You’re still a guppy, Sherlock.  The humans are more dangerous than ever, and you’re gallivanting around the surface playing with one of them.”

            “Not playing with him.  Studying him.  Seriously, ‘more dangerous than ever?’  Who told you that, my brother?”  He snorts.  “Well, isn’t that perfect.  All the more reason for us to study them  _now_ so we know what we’re dealing with.”

            “Now I’m beginning to see why your brother thinks you’re obsessed.  I don’t think—oh.”  Lestrade looks him over from top to tail, studying him with obvious disapproval.  “Sherlock.”

            “ _What_?!”

            “Are you attracted to… it?  This human you’re ‘studying’?”

            Sherlock stares at him, utterly agog.  “You—you,” he stammers, flushing with anger, quite unable to compose himself.  “You think that I want to  _mate_  with my test subject?”

            “Well, quite frankly, you’ve never shown any interest in  _merfolk_ —”

            “Because merfolk are  _boring_.”  It’s true that Sherlock reasonably should have begun mating two centuries ago.  Hasn’t tried it, though, despite the efforts of several persistent mermaids wishing to bear the child of a prince.  No interest in wasting his time on such things, not when there’s research to be done.

            “Sherlock, don’t be moronic,” Lestrade says.  “The laws against mating with humans are older than your brother.”

            “And that  _is_  saying something,” Sherlock mutters venomously.

            “There’s a reason those laws were set down in the first place.  Someone crossed a line.  You wouldn’t be the first.”

            “This is preposterous.”  Sherlock curls his hands into fists.  “My interest is purely scientific.”

            “If that’s the  _case_ ,” Lestrade insists, “you should have no trouble distancing yourself from it.  Now, give us another hour and we’ll be out of your hair.”  He places a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “You don’t need to be a scientist, Sherlock.  You were always so handy with magic.  Why don’t you focus on your sorcery instead?  That’s perfectly respectable.”

            Sherlock doesn’t respond.  Can’t respond.  He shakes Lestrade off and swims away, far away from his cove, down, down, deeper, into the dark where Mycroft won’t find him.  There, he locates a sheltering rock and curls up under it.  Ruined, ruined—all of his work, everything ruined—and Gregory Lestrade thinks he should become a  _sorcerer_.

            He thinks of John on the surface, showing up again with the laptop or something else delightfully interesting, waiting for Sherlock to appear.  Sherlock won’t appear, of course.  Mycroft’s peons will see to that.  Just when Sherlock has found the perfect specimen, he’s going to be cut off for good.  And there’d been so much to look forward to.  He hasn’t even gotten John out of his shoes yet.  He wants to, so badly.  Wants to have a proper look at John’s feet, study his arches, examine his ankles.  Maybe, somehow, if he could manage to persuade John to let him have a look at his legs—

            Legs.   _Legs_.  That’s it.  Sherlock sits up quickly, nearly hitting his head on the rock.  That’s what he’s missing—why hadn’t he thought of this centuries ago?  He’s sure he can do it, he just has to think… he hid his magic tomes elsewhere, so those idiots in his cove won’t find them.  Barely needs to rely on them, though, not when the formula is coming together so clearly in his head.

            Lestrade and Mycroft want him to practice his magic, do they?  Well, he’ll show them magic.  He’s going to perform the greatest act of magic their kind has ever seen.  He’ll be revered for it for millennia.

            More importantly, if all goes to plan, he’ll be able to continue his studies again by midday tomorrow.  Excellent.

            Sherlock smiles, reinvigorated, and then swims off to get started.


End file.
